Addiction
by Unexplainable Contradiction
Summary: Addiction (uh-dik-shuhn) noun - the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma - Example: He had an addiction, and it utterly changed him./In which Freddie has an addiction, and he really doesn't care. AU! OOC! ONESHOT!


**For all of my loyal fans, I have finally left the fandom. Not for good, but I do feel as if I am betraying Percy...**

**For all those out there who do not know me, I am a Percy Jackson addict. But, strangely enough, after searching through some iCarly FanFictions, I found myself with a new idea, and that new idea became this. A****lso, for those who do not know me or have read any of my work, I like taking characters and twisting them all up into someone entirely new. **

**By the way, I wrote this a_ long_ time ago. **

**Warnings: THIS IS _OOC_! This was also typed on an iPod; expect grammatical errors. Also, I did zero research for this, so everything that is wrong or incorrect, well, I warned you. **

**THE NUMBERS ARE MADE UP. (You'll see.)**

**I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING THAT NEEDS COPYRIGHT. **

Addiction

Addiction (uh-**dik**-shuhn)

_noun_

1. the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma

Example: _He had an addiction, and it utterly changed him. _

~…~

Fredward Benson had an addiction.

No, it wasn't to any type of drug or alcohol; it wasn't to girls or to anything involving that stuff. His addiction wasn't to any of his nerd or geeky stuff, like trains or Galaxy Wars—those were obsessions.

No, Freddie knew he had an addiction long before he even knew about most of that stuff. Freddie had learned—had known, really—that he was addicted when he first heard the word at the mere age of eight, and he knew that he had been addicted even before that.

Of course, knowing he was addicted obviously didn't do anything; he was still the same addict as before, just more knowledgeable in the acts he committed.

Freddie continued to feed his addiction. The only issue, then and now, was keeping it unknown to people. So he played the sweet boy, and in reality, Freddie was. But he had a dirty little secret, and that tended to counter the goodness in him.

But he was addicted to what he did. He lived for it. And maybe it was wrong—okay, it was really wrong—but nobody ever stopped him; it wasn't like Freddie was going to stop himself.

So Freddie just stuck to keeping himself out of denial, to keeping himself in semi-control.

"Freddie Benson," he would say to himself, "you're addicted to stealing."

And that would be that.

~…~

It all started when I was seven.

It was a simple act, really, done by an, at the time, innocent boy. I was on the playground at school, swinging high up on the swings right before it happened.

The wind was ruffling my hair, and when I reached the highest point of my swing, I would separate from the flimsy rubber. Up, down, up, down. Squeak, squeak, squeak. A giggle erupted from my throat as I readied myself for the leap from the swing, my hands clenching the cool metal tightly.

Leaping from the seat, feeling that momentary feeling of weightlessness, was amazing, and then I landed.

On a little girl.

"Ouch!" she squealed, standing up and glaring at me. "That hurt."

"Sorry," I quickly apologized. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm so sorry."

She huffed, glaring at me, but let it go seconds after. "Okay."

I sighed in relief, but I should have known that nothing bad would happen: I had landed on Tiffany Welbrook, the school's nicest girl. Tiffany always wore plaid dresses, today's being blue, and her hair up in tight pigtails. Every day, some teacher—no one knew which—would give her a lollipop for being so nice, so Tiffany looked like one of those little girls from the fifties, with her rosy cheeks and toothy smile.

She smiled, gave me a small nod, and skipped off happily, leaving behind her multicolored lollipop.

I really wanted that lollipop.

Deep down inside, I knew I should return it—it's what my mom, my teachers, and my friends would say was right—but it looked so good. My mom never allowed me any sweets like a lollipop, and I really wanted to try one.

I bent down to pick it up, fingering the plastic that covered it. The lollipop wasn't even open, so it was clean. My fingers wrapped around the stick, and I stuffed it in my jacket, hiding it from the world.

When I arrived home, I immediately dashed for my room and slammed the door. Sitting down, I slowly, carefully, unwrapped the clear plastic.

It tasted delicious.

The lollipop was gone before a few minutes had even passed, and I crumpled the garbage in my fists. While hiding the rubbish in my trash bin, I thought to myself:

What I did really wasn't all that bad; I simply got what I wanted, what I probably deserved for being such a good student, too. It wasn't that bad.

And there wasn't any guilt.

That was the start of my addiction.

…~

After the lollipop incident, I began taking what I wanted more often.

It was only little things: candy from a peer's lunchbox, a pencil or cool pen, erasers. Nothing of true importance. Nobody really noticed or cared, and I got away with it with my sticky fingers.

About a week later, after the Great Lollipop Incident, my whole family gathered for a big family dinner.

It was insane. Like my family.

Like my life.

People were milling about everywhere, complaining about the world and its unhealthy food and lifestyles. Lotions and tic bath soap was being passed around, and I shivered. I really didn't like tic baths.

The only relatively normal person in my entire family—I'm not included, because is it really normal for a seven year-old to steal?—was my cousin Conor. He was fifteen with dirty blonde hair that always hung in his bright, mischievous eyes, but Conor was also a bit on the... bad side, as my mother would put it. Every day, refusing to wear what his mother picked out, refusing to take a tic bath or wear anti-bacterial underpants, refusing to be what my family lives for, is what he did. Conor was different.

Different from my family and their expectations.

And I liked it. Slurping on my third glass of watermelon juice—I had no idea why I loved the stuff—I tip-toed over to Conor, who was standing in the corner on his lonesome. Not noticing me, because I was light on my feet, Conor continued to text whoever the heck he was texting, and I managed to sneak up right underneath him. "Boo!" I screamed, and he dropped his phone in surprise.

"Freddie!" he gasped, too startled to move even more into the corner. When Conor's heart rate seemed to have slowed down, Conor knelt down to snatch his phone, the whole time gawking at me like I was an alien. "What was that?" he asked, obviously bewildered at my ability to sneak up on him.

What? I was a thief. And a good one at that.

"Conor," I mocked, smiling cheekily.

"Seriously, Freddie, where'd you come from?" He was still gawking at me, but I was exhilarated that he even noticed me. Conor was, like, my hero.

I bit my lip, motioning with my head at the buffet table. "I got some juice, saw you over here, and walked over." Simple enough, right?

"You," Conor laughed, "are really light on your feet. I couldn't even tell you were coming over until you yelled at me." He smiled a bright, proud smile, and I felt my chest swell. My cousin was awesome.

"Want some juice?" I offered meekly, holding up my watermelon juice.

"No thank you, Freddie, but I do have to ask: How many glasses have you had so far?" Patting my shoulder, he glanced at the half-empty bowl of watermelon juice.

"This is my third," I replied immediately, taking another sip.

"Sticky fingers," Conor snickered, and I nearly dropped my cup in surprise. Somehow, I knew the term sticky fingers could be used for a thief, a stealer, but did Conor know about this? How?

Chuckling, Conor continued, "You're gonna get that juice all over your fingers, and then what? Your mom won't be very happy, with you being sticky and all."

Oh. Conor didn't know; it was still my dirty little secret, and mine alone. "He-he," I laughed softly, draining the rest of my watermelon juice.

Slapping my back jokingly and steering me in the direction of the gradually growing circle of family members, Conor said to me, "C'mon, Juice. It's family sharing time."

"Juice?"

"Yeah, Juice. Because you love watermelon juice and have sticky fingers," he replied easily, continuing to gently prod me to the circle.

During family sharing time, usually only "dark" secrets and tips on how to stay safe and healthy were told, but when it was my turn, I stated very proudly, "My new name is Juice." There were snickers, gasps of disbelief, glares at my not-so-nice played attempt at a joke, and a pair of pursed lips from my mother. Knowing she was wondering where it came from, I added, "It's because I like watermelon juice so much."

And that was that. I had a new name, one that, ironically, fit me very well, and I liked my new name. I liked it a lot.

So did my sticky, sticky fingers.

~…~

My addiction grew.

Of course it grew, but I was a naive little eight year-old who thought the stealing would stop when he was seven. But I was wrong. Of course I was wrong.

I began shoplifting. Yes, an eight year-old, shoplifting. Little things only: plastic toys that couldn't cost more than two dollars, candy from drug stores, the sorts.

What I couldn't understand, though, was how no adults or cameras had caught me. Maybe it was because I was careful; maybe it was because no one suspected me. Either way, I was a free criminal.

Criminal.

Every time I said the word, rolled it around on my tongue, I got an electric shiver up my spine, but it wasn't bad. It was good—a wild feeling that wrapped around my brain, telling me, "This is it. You can do whatever you want to do. You're free."

And when I saw Conor, for I saw him quite often being that he was my favorite cousin and he seemed to have a soft spot for me, I would stare at him, laughing with his eyes alight, and think, "He's free, too."

The only difference: My freedom broke the law; Conor's freedom broke his mother's rules.

But that was okay, because I wanted to be my own person, one who didn't wear anti-bacterial underpants or took tic baths once a week or couldn't eat pizza because it was bad for the health. I was me, and me turned out to be a sneaky little light-on-his-feet thief.

But I was okay with that. My morals were all out of wack—or maybe I was in too deep—and I continued to steal.

And that part of my life didn't even come close to my worst acts.

Because my addiction didn't stop.

…~

I learned to pickpocket.

It was simple, really, stuffing my tiny fingers into a back pocket to take a candy bar. I never used this gift on random people, though—because what would people keep in their pockets that I wanted?—but I did use it to mess with Conor.

He was staying over the night, so he could watch me in the morning when my mom left for a wedding. In his back pocket, Conor's phone jutted out, just right for the taking. It was vibrating loudly, shaking and jumping with texts, but Conor dismissed them all, instead choosing to watch a movie with me. It was just. Right. There. And the vibrating was annoying, distracting me from the singing animated characters.

Gingerly, I slipped my hand behind Conor's back and slid it from the butt pocket. Silencing it, I stuffed the device underneath the couch cushion.

That's better.

The next day at breakfast, Conor came into the kitchen, scratching his head. "Your mom was right," he was saying, half to himself. "It was underneath the couch cushions, but I don't understand why my phone was turned off."

I just smiled knowingly.

Every time after that, I stole Conor's phone off of him, hiding it underneath the couch cushions, even if we were somewhere away from the couch. I think he knew I did it, but he wasn't sure.

Because I was sweet little Freddie Benson, and I could never do anything wrong.

~…~

My downfall began the day before my ninth birthday.

I call it the Beginning of the End, because that's what it is.

I was in Wal-Mart, trailing behind my mother as we made our way to the check-out line. My feet were shuffling, my hands deep in my jacket pockets, and my face was contorted into a scowl. There was only one thing I wanted for my birthday—I had everything else—but it was far too expensive. If only I had money, I thought to myself.

"So how's school, honey?" Mom asked, attempting to make small talk.

"I'm valedictorian." It wasn't all that difficult to do; I did far more difficult challenges, especially since I always had to think big to escape the cops.

"That's great, Freddie!" She grinned, her face practically splitting in half.

At least she's proud of me, is all I could think.

Leaving the check-out line, after the awkward silence had set in once again, we ran into Conor and his mother. My mood immediately brightened, and I beamed at my hero.

Then my mood dulled again when my mom and his mom began talking. And talking.

And talking.

Conor stood there patiently, while I finally just left to get some water. Taking my sip, I noticed a man who was standing in front of a large machine, an ATM, I think.

Money came out of it. And a lot of money at that.

The man left, and I waited until an elderly man with a gray mustache and full head of gray hair stepped up to the machine. I snuck next to the ATM, and then, without knowing what I was thinking, only that this was my chance, I peered at the old man with questioning eyes. "What's that?" I asked cutely, and the man jumped back in surprise.

He chuckled fondly, easily patting my head; a kind man, I thought. Fantastic. "Curious, are you? Well, this is an ATM, and when I slip my card in"—he did as mentioned—"I can take out money from my bank account." He typed in some numbers: 96873. Finger wavering over the screen for a split second, the man typed in a number, and then—WOW!

Money. Money. Money.

Flimsy, green paper shot out of the machine. "See?"

I nodded mutely, my mouth opened in awe; dollar signs were dancing in my vision. The man smiled at my expression, messing up my hair before leisurely walking away.

Remembering the numbers 96873, I gripped the plastic card in my jacket pocket.

This is my chance.

…~

This was it, the first step in really making a criminal of myself.

I found myself standing in front of the ATM, glancing around for security cameras, a week later in that same Wal-Mart. It was a small Wal-Mart, and old too, so cameras weren't that big of a deal actually, but people were. My mom was in the restroom, so at most I had three minutes to get the money and jam it in my jacket pockets. The least amount of time I had? Thirty seconds.

Don't wimp out, I told myself.

Slipping on a pair of gloves—because I knew finger prints could be tracked—I shoved the card in, quickly going through the steps I had studied online. Fifty bucks came out, and that seemed like pure heaven to me.

I whipped off the gloves and held the card like a treasure in them, but I knew I couldn't keep it.

What to do? What to do...?

Smirking, I slid the card underneath the ATM discreetly as a new victim, a woman of about mid-forties, came sauntering in, earrings jangling and fur coat bouncing. She went through the steps easily, and I memorized the number, 66837, before pickpocketing the amazing card from her large purse.

Adding the number quickly to my notebook, I watched as my mother came out of the restroom, fluffing her hair. "What are you doing?" she asked, eyeing the black notebook carefully, but I could tell she knew nothing.

I smiled innocently, flipping to a new page. "Studying computers and stuff," I lied, and Mom nodded, understanding my obsession with technology.

Lying shouldn't be this easy, but the feeling of relief that I got away with what I did overpowered that guilt.

From that point on, my lying and stealing skills only got better.

Is that a good or bad thing?

…~

I was nine-and-a-half when I became known.

It was not the Freddie-you-steal type of known, but the known where my criminal half became known.

Public.

Maybe even national.

I had snuck out of the house—yes, I know, bad idea—when the babysitter had fallen asleep on the couch, my backpack with my laptop and watermelon juice slung over my shoulder. Dusk was setting in, but I wasn't worried.

Why should I be? I could escape, right?

My feet automatically lead me to an uncrowded area, where an ATM stood, screen bright with words and colors. I yanked out my laptop and hacked into the surveillance systems, because I knew I had to be careful in situations like these; technology was advancing, and fast.

100% complete.

Quickly, I moved to the ATM, fingers hovering for only a few seconds as I recalled the memory with the number: 33343. Typing it in, a worker came into my vision.

Almost done...

I didn't make it.

"Hey, kid, what are you doing?" barked the man, and I clicked a few more things on the screen, money popping out like candy from a piñata.

Except this was much more than I usually got. Usually, fifty to a hundred dollars was the limit, but because I had rushed, an extra two zeros were typed in, and I ended up with seventy-five-thousand big bucks.

"I said," the man yelled, storming over, "what are you doing?"

I snatched the cash, stuffing it in my book bag, my laptop soon following. "Sorry, sir!" I yelped, and—this is completely on accident—my backpack flung out of my grasp and hit the man. In the temple.

Knocking him out.

Not waiting to let the moment settle, I grabbed my bag back, dropping my watermelon juice on the plastic card in the process; the sticky liquid burst from the bottle, drenching the card. I picked up my juice, but ignored the stickiness of the card and slid it under the machine, like I always did, and dropped my gloves and juice in the nearest garbage bin, which was different.

But those gloves could help police find me.

It's a good thing that can was emptied and the rubbish brought away not an hour later then, right?

Later, when Conor was over with his mother and we were all sitting in the living room, trying to figure out something to do, breaking news blared over the television.

"Jon Fradely, age twenty-two, is the first witness of a new credit card thief, as Officer Coolum says," the anchor was saying. "Young Jon witnessed the act live, but was assaulted in the process, gaining a concussion, so no new information was gathered from that. The only thing the thief left this time was a bottle of watermelon juice. Police are calling this criminal 'Juice' because of that." I phased out after that, fear creeping in my stomach.

I had made a mistake, and that couldn't happen again. At least the money was hidden away, though, right? It wasn't even in my house, but tucked into a hole right beside the trunk of the big maple tree outside in the backyard.

No one would find that money.

"Juice, you hear that?" Conor joked lightly, shoving me in a friendly manner. "You and a criminal share the same name."

And then I laughed at the irony, because that criminal and I were one and the same.

Funny how my life worked out like that, huh?

…~

My official downfall happened on the day before my tenth birthday.

Since Juice had become a known criminal, I had become more... daring. The money shooting out from the ATMs—if the people had enough, though my ability to find wealthy people was uncanny—became at least fifty-thousand at a time.

And today I was at the original Wal-Mart, the one where it all started. Today was the day where I did my biggest withdrawal yet.

Because yesterday, I had stolen a credit card from a multimillionaire, and now I was going to take half a million for myself.

After this, Juice was suddenly going to disappear, because I would be set for life. I could even 'help' Conor buy that expensive new car he has been saving up for.

I made my way to the water fountain, searching for any people. After a minute, I plugged in my laptop and switched off the security cameras. The process of getting the money was easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy: put in card, choose amount you want to withdraw, type in new numbers 96827, take cash.

Of course, because Juice was such a big bad criminal, I had to do my part and tease the police—by dumping my sticky, sticky watermelon juice all over every single card I used.

Done. Done. And done.

I slipped my gloves in my pockets after unplugging my laptop, and then I fled the crime scene unnoticed. No one bothered me as I weaved my way through the crowd of customers to my mother, and no one even acknowledged my presence as I waited patiently in line.

That is, until she came—Officer Peroki.

"Excuse me, ma'am," she says to Mom, holding up her badge. "My name is Officer Peroki, and I understand your son was recently by the ATM."

"Are you accusing my son of something?" my mom hissed, pushing me behind her; while she was doing that, I threw out my juice and got ready to run.

"Just doing my job, ma'am." Officer Peroki leaned down to my level, holding a manicured hand out. "May I see your bag, please?"

When I didn't move to do just that, her eyelids lowered to menacing slits, and I knew deep down, that even though I was a kid, Officer Peroki had no problem believing that I could steal. Maybe she could sense my aura of badness.

"The bag, please." Her voice was cold, and the please didn't really mean anything because she went right to snatching it from my grasp; I grabbed a plastic separator.

Pulling out a crisp one hundred dollar bill, she asked, "What is this?"

And I launched that stick like my life depended on it.

The bag fell from her grip and I grabbed it and ran for my life—out of the Walmart, through the  
parking lot, away from my mother's disappointed stare.

I hid out from the police for a week before anyone found me, and I went kicking and screaming the whole way when I was.

~…~

I was ten years old and in juvie.

Not exactly where anyone pictured sweet Freddie Benson to be—at any age, for that matter.

But I was here, well, at least I was, until Officer Peroki came by and brought me to my school, to my old classroom. "The lawyer needs concrete evidence, though I think the fact that you had five-hundred-thousand dollars when you were found is enough," Officer Peroki was saying, testing my handcuffs. "And a notebook is the best concrete evidence there is, so go get it for me."

The door clicked open and I was shoved in harshly. "Jeez, lady," I muttered scowling; ever since I was arrested, attitude became my best friend. "Ever heard of being nice?"

"Go."

"What do you want me to do again?"

Officer Peroki tapped her foot impatiently, and that was when I noticed that the teacher was in the room, as well as all of the students.

"Excuse me?" Ms. May asked meekly, walking over. "You must be the officer that was supposed to come here, but I, uh, thought you were doing a search for Juice. This is Freddie Benson. He's my best student."

Thank goodness I was nice in school, I mentally cheered, smiling a sickly sweet smile at my teacher. "See?" I told Officer Peroki. "Even she says I wouldn't do such a thing, and Ms. May doesn't even know why I'm here."

Ignoring me, Officer Peroki turned to face Ms. May, professionally stating, "There is reason to believe that Freddie here is Juice."

Gasps, pointing fingers, and whispered words all found their way toward me. I scoffed, rolled my eyes, and tugged on Officer Peroki's uniform. "I'm not Juice."

"Then why," Officer Peroki growled through gritted teeth, "were you found with five-hundred-thousand dollars from the local ATM?"

Dang it. That half a million would have brought me to over a million, but it was taken away from me. If only she wasn't doing a search, I could've been set for life. "So I got carried away and accidentally typed in some extra zeros? I just wanted to see how it would work!" Biting my lower lip, I felt my eyes tear up; I was getting way too into character if I was about to actually cry.

"Let me think for a while... I still don't believe you." Officer Peroki rolled her eyes and began to turn around, when another idea popped into my head.

"Okay, you caught me," I began, stepping back until I stepped into a desk—my old desk; my hand slipped into the cubby underneath it, grasping for my notebook. "I knew what I was doing when I took that money."

Officer Peroki turned to face me warily, everyone else whipping around like I was reality TV. "Are you finally confessing?"

"To something entirely different," I pointed out. "I'm not Juice, but I did work for him."

Officer Peroki froze. "For him?" she hissed.

I nodded, leaning in. "Yeah, I heard a bunch of kids did, but I'm not really sure, because no one ever went face to face with anyone. For secrecy and stuff, ya know?"

Officer Peroki nodded blankly, and I knew I had her hooked.

You're free, my notebook seemed to whisper slyly to me.

Just hide us, the numbers advised.

The paper quietly crumpled in my hands, and soon all of the numbers were lost forever to wandering eyes.

They lived only in my mind now.

…~

After I was released from juvie not too long later, my mom had picked me up.

And the second we got home, she jammed a box in my arms and ordered me to the car. "We're moving," she had said.

"Okay." I nodded and put the box in the trunk before heading back inside to get another box. While my mom wasn't looking, I grabbed the money from the hole by the maple tree; I dropped the money in a box with my name on it.

We didn't say goodbye to anyone; we just left. I already missed Conor.

I sat in the backseat quietly as we speeded by, wondering what had happened during my time away.

Finally, I blurted, "I'm not Juice."

My mom jumped at that, but then she relaxed slightly, brows knitted together. "I know, Freddie. You just got mixed up in a bad world, but... other people don't understand that. Okay?"

I nodded, feeling the guilt gnaw at my heart; I shook it away, because it had no reason to be there or, for that matter, anywhere near me at all.

Silence wrapped around me and my mom, choking us and the unspoken words between us.

But I didn't try to say anything, and she didn't either.

We just continued to speed away from my old life as fast a possible.

Too bad I couldn't let it go.

~…~

We lived in LA for a bit, and I met some friends, but the city was too big and too close to my old home.

Gossip about me spread like wildfire, and Mom... didn't really like that, nor did she appreciate the helpful hints to send me back to juvie.

We packed up the house less than two years later and continued up farther north.

The whole ride, I had to wonder who caught me taking that purple T-shirt from Target.

~…~

Seattle.

We stayed there, made our home there. People didn't harass my mother about me and my "juvenile ways" and no one knew I had ever gotten mixed up in that stuff in the first place.

I was sweet, nerdy Freddie Benson, who could never do anything wrong.

And so when, suddenly, I got something new, people thought I had bought it with my own money.

Of course, no one ever asked where that money came from.

~…~

When I officially met/became friends/no longer moral enemies/co-workers with Carly Shay and Sam Puckett, things weren't as bad as I made them out to be.

Sam's ways were... different from most people's; she preferred to do things illegally.

And, maybe, I liked that.

I could live through Sam. For the first few months I knew her, everything bad that Sam did I thrilled in, even if it was aimed at me. Sam was... a juvenile delinquent. And so was I.

But Carly was not. She was the picture of perfect, innocent. It was, however, pretty amazing that she could control Sam Puckett. Besides, if she controlled Sam, in a way, she was controlling me.

The amount of times I stole things plummeted.

~…~

We were going to steal a cat. A cat of all things! I didn't become Juice to steal cats!

This was awful. I haven't stolen anything in weeks, and when I do, it's a cat used for blackmail. What were we thinking?! I would much rather just get the money to buy the idiots out.

But... that would reveal that I had mishaps with the law before. That couldn't happen. I had to stay the sweet, couldn't-squash-a-bug Freddie.

Horrible.

True. Torture.

I grumbled under my breath for a bit, but I brought myself out of it quickly, because, in the end, stealing was stealing; and stealing was my favorite pastime. Stealing was what I did.

Sam picked the lock, and I timed her; it was pretty fast, I hate to admit, but I was faster when I was eight.

We were in.

There was some hiding and sneaking around and stuff when the two dweebs walked in on the break-in—something I didn't particularly like—but, in the end, we got the cat and the business.

Of course, there was also a torn up Spencer. I still don't understand why that cat hated him so much.

But after that, after the sense that I could do whatever I wanted was revived, I couldn't hold back anymore.

I got out of bed one night, grabbed my laptop, and snuck out.

Like a pro.

As I walked the dark streets of Seattle, I thought: I didn't know what I was going to steal; I just knew I was. The feeling that I had to tingled in me, through my sticky criminal fingers.

I was Juice, and Juice stole things.

His favorite thing to steal? Money.

Pickpocketing strangers usually didn't make sense to me—they might not have money on them—but I did anyway. I raked in cash and coins, a watch or two, a nice necklace, several rings.

And then I saw it.

A card.

My fingers itched for it, but I knew if there was an illegal withdrawal, the police were going to get involved. The police would then look through records, and fingers would be pointed at me, Juice's worker.

Later, I told myself. When I was ready to leave. When I could make a run for it. When I knew I wouldn't get caught.

Later.

~…~

After Carly went to live with her dad in Italy, Sam didn't even stay in Seattle for the rest of the night. She just took off.

And that left me alone, with no one to control me and no one to live through.

Before the sun was even beginning to peak over the horizon, I was ready to go, with my old stash of seven-hundred-thousand or so, my laptop just in case, and about everything else. And the watermelon juice; I can't forget the watermelon juice, can I?

I grinned, feeling my excitement spread throughout my body.

Later had become now.

Leaving my front door, I peered at what had become my home, my mom's closed door. Against my better judgment, I had left a note, and that was it; nothing was holding back from leaving except myself. "Bye," I whispered, and then I laughed spitefully, because I realized I'd never get a goodbye back.

Oh well.

Then I was gone, slipping black gloves on my fingers-to protect from germs, right?

This was going to be fun, I thought, my smile reappearing on my face.

The elevator shuddered, as if it was scared for what I had planned and wanted to stop me, then groaned its way down to the lobby level. Lubert screeched at me as I stepped out, ruining his recently polished floors, but I ignored him, continuing to the doors. But then I stopped, because I could clear the surveillance cameras and have fun at the same time.

Who wouldn't want to do that?

Brimming with confidence, I sauntered over to the desk. "Whada want?" he asked me harshly, sitting up.

I didn't say a word, only slipped around to the other side of the desk, where Lubert was now at full attention.

"Hey! Only I get to go back here. Ya hear me?" screamed Lubert in his nasally voice. "Go away!"

I pretended to put some thought into my answer. "How about... no?" I bumped him off his chair, so that Lubert lay sprawled on the ground, confused. I rolled my eyes at him and cleared some... things on the computer.

Then I started backing away. Nobody ever believed Lubert, but just in case, I said, "If I never did this, you might get a reward."

Lubert didn't say anything, but I knew he understood what I meant: a bargain of sorts.

I finally left the building, walking out on the dark, deserted sidewalks.

Later.

That word came to haunt me, because the one thing I had told myself I could do later was in my grasp. I could be set for life.

Practically skipping, I made my way to my first victim, a man in his mid-thirties with messy black hair and a high school sweatshirt. He didn't seem all that wealthy, but I knew better. What tipped me off? The watch sparkling on his wrist, the shoes on his feet, and the fat wallet popping out of his back pocket.

The other thing? He was already in the store at an ATM, typing in numbers: 33845. The machine began spitting out the money hundreds at a time. The man glanced nervously around, probably hoping not to get mugged, and I internally chuckled. He was about to get something a bit different than he had imagined.

Cautiously, the man stepped out of the store—part of a gas station, I realized—right past me. "Hello." Smiling, I waved with one hand while the other gently plucked out the card. The man nodded back and then bustled off.

"Too easy," I murmured to myself, and then I set off to find a different ATM that I could use. "Too easy."

And it was.

By the time the sun was rising, I had stolen money from half a dozen people, all in very different locations, and none of them would notice, because they just thought that they had accidentally dropped their cards.

The watermelon juice sloshed in my backpack, unopened. I wasn't as bold as I used to be; I was smarter, my moves more difficult to pinpoint to one person.

But the juice was with me for a reason. My legs sore from all of the walking, I weaved my way through a jogging group to the virtually empty park.

There.

The multimillionaire's son sat on a park bench, fixing his tie for a business meeting he had with one hand and holding a phone to his ear with the other. He was even richer than his father, and I could have some of that wealth so easily...

But I had to wait. Yes, there was technology out there that allowed me to take money by simply waving it around the card, but if I bought anything even remotely similar the police would pounce and I'd be locked up. Sadly, I had to do things the old-fashioned way.

Hopefully I would have good luck and the multimillionaire would stop by an ATM on the walk to the meeting.

I casually strolled passed him, pretending to search for someone in the distance. The man didn't pay me any mind and continued to have his obviously very important conversation on the phone. "I know, I know," I heard him saying, and I could just imagine him pulling at his tie to release stress. "My flight was canceled—I don't know why!" He took in a deep, calming breath of air. "But, I promise I'll be in LA by tomorrow for the meeting."

I froze at this. LA? I couldn't walk to LA, couldn't even run there as fast as I could, by tomorrow. I would have to find some other form of transportation...

I listened to another minute or so of the conversation, so I could gather the address of the meeting building—and then I continued on.

Where could I get a vehicle? Preferably something cheap so it wouldn't be too suspicious?

An idea formed. Catching a ride on the bus, I rode to a small neighborhood, where, sure enough, old, rusted cars were parked out on the dried lawns. A sky blue pick-up caught my eye, on sale for only a few thousand dollars, and I made my way toward it.

It looked good enough—I only needed it to take me to LA; it even had a license plate. I patted its rusted door. "You're gonna be my new get-away machine." Placing some sunglasses on, I bounded up to the creaky front door, and, knocking, I thought of what I was going to say, what my fake identity was going to be.

An elderly—and I mean elderly—man answered the door. "Is there a reason you're knockin' on meh door?"

"Uh, yes sir. I wanted to buy your car." I pointed behind me. "The blue pick-up over there."

"Really? Ya have money?" He crossed his arms over his chest with a huff, staring down his big, bumpy red nose at me.

"Yes sir." I reached behind me, pulling out four-thousand dollars, making sure not to show anything else.

His eyes popped out of his head. "Whad ya do, rob a bank?"

I shook my head. "No sir. I just saved up."

"Well, I'll take it." He greedily reached out for the money, but I pulled the bundle out of his reach.

"Wait," I begged him, biting my lower lip. "Can I keep some of it?"

"Fine." He took what I handed him, and I put the rest in my front pants pocket. That was too easy; no paper work, no name giving, no questions as to where I was going. "That's it?" I asked, as to not be too suspicious.

"Yep," the man grunted. "But, lemme gi' ya a warnin', boy: while on the run, hide the rest a ya money better. Don't wanna get mugged, do ya?"

After a few minutes of deciphering the man's strong accent, I nodded in understanding. "Yes sir," I said meekly, and then the old man tossed me some keys.

Slipping my gloves back on, I ran off, smirking.

I'll say this again and again: too easy.

…~

After several hours straight of driving with some help of my best buddy coffee, I entered LA. It looked... mildly the same as it had when I lived there—same roads and general restaurants and stores—but, somehow, even bigger, with more buildings, skyscrapers, and fewer trees. My eyes widened a bit like a tourist's as I spotted one of my old friends skipping on the sidewalk, red hair flying, but I forced myself to refocus; I had to keep my priorities straight.

I laughed at that thought a bit, because priorities? I must've had some pretty messed up ones, or maybe it was just my brain. No—it was the addiction. Definitely the addiction.

Some crazy kids singing in their car drove alongside me, knocking me out of my revere, and I nearly honked my horn to shut them up—I guess the stress was getting to me. Finally, after several confusing turns and more loud buffoons driving crazier than monkeys passing by me at a hundred miles per hour, I came upon a skyscraper thirty or so stories tall. Windows made up all four walls, reflecting the city around it; reflected in the many windows was an ATM, and by it was my unknowing target.

Ignorant multimillionaire; does he expect no one to ever bother him?

Quickly parking my car, I leapt out with my backpack thumping me, but I made sure to act natural going up to the machine. I waited in line behind the man, where he had just slipped in his card. Covering the number pad, he typed in the numbers. So he was cautious, I mused.

But it didn't matter; just from listening and watching where his fingers landed, I knew them: 58423.

He whirled around, face red and hair disheveled, and stomped off to the building while placing the hundreds of dollars in his briefcase. "This deal better work," I heard him mutter. For his sake, I hoped it did, too.

I knew the card would have felt smooth in my grip, but my gloves kept me from feeling it. I stared at it, my key to a free life (or maybe a life in prison, but I doubted that), and, in the middle of LA, with no cameras in sight but people milling about on the opposite side of the street, I stuck in the card. No one noticed me or the rattling machine as a million dollars spat out of it.

Making sure to leave no traces, not even a breath of air, I spilled drops of watermelon juice on the card, and then I left the half full bottle underneath the ATM with my key, the signature Juice written, scarred, on both of them.

And then I dashed across the street, hopped in my parked pick-up and drove off.

There were no witnesses, no cameras, no finger prints on anything. There was nothing on me.

Around the time I had parked the car on the side of an abandoned freeway hours away, left to walk into a new life, the police had just found the bottle and card, Juice's—my—signature burned into them.

I knew they would suspect me, would take me away to prison; at least, they would want to.

But I was already gone.

Freddie Benson was already _long_ gone.

His addiction made sure of that.

**Yeah, I also like to just end stuff. It's called a cliff-hanger, right? **

**I add little details that might bug people, such as the numbers: They tell you something. The hint: phone. **

**Anyway, REVIEW! Favorites would also be nice. **

**Peace and all that other stuff. **

**~Unexplainable Contradiction **


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